bad poems #10

before i came to the uk i thought all british food was bad
and especially beans on toast just looked positively disgusting because it oozed with ketchup
but then i started to really enjoy beans
i would always have english breakfast and scoop up all the beans
one time the lady at the cafeteria gave me a whole plate of beans
i made tiktoks about beans
but then i started taking too long to eat the beans and they would get cold
and i dont like cold beans
so i stopped liking beans

bad poems #9

réalité: une série d'haikus 

I

il y a un an

pendant quelques jours en mai

je me sentais un peu

II

ou même complètement

détachée et débranchée

d'une réalité

III

que j'étais censée

comprendre. c'était à malia

je dormais peu et

IV

buvais un peu trop.

(mais genre pas excessivement – 

pas comme le garçon

V

qui m'a offert

du tequila à six heures

du mat'. pas comme ça

VI

mais plus que normal.

normalement je bois quelques

fois par an mais là

VII

c'était un peu tous

les jours. enfin bref) j'étais

fatiguée. et donc

VIII 

la réalité sentait

différente. comme un rêve ou

peut-être un film que

IX

je regardais sur

un iPod ou un écran

de télé d'avion

X

de quelqu'un plusieurs

rangs devant moi sur un vol

de genève à chine.

XI 

ou sinon j'étais

la pilote d'un gundam, comme

dans pacific rim

XII

de toute façon

je me sentais pas moi-même

heraklion était 

XIII

flou et mécanique.

aujourd'hui, un an plus tard,

je me sens encore

XIV

irréelle. pourquoi

je ne sais pas. ce matin: 

bonne humeur. pas triste.

XV

je dansais dans ma

chambre puis je suis allée à

george street social pour

XVI

manger et bosser

j'ai bu un latté et vers

quinze heures trente, seize heures

XVII

soudainement j'étais

épuisée. je pensais que

c'était le café

XVIII

donc j'ai acheté un

autre. (mais un petit, pas grand)

inutile. je me

XIX

sens différent que

l'autre fois. cette fois c'est pas

moi la détachée

XX

mais le monde entier.

comme quand le son et l'image

dans un film pirate

XXI

ne sont pas ensembles,

pas synchronisés. comme si

rien là n'est réel.

XXII

je sais qui je suis

mais c'est tout ce que je sais

après une semaine

XXIII

de tristesse et de

moments dépressifs où je

n'arrive pas à me

XXIV

bouger, peut-être que

c'est un effet secondaire

comme – genre j'sais pas dire

XXV

en français mais en

anglais c'est aftershock. peut-

être que demain je

XXVI

serais de nouveau

normale. au moins motivée.

au moins sentant plus 

XXVII

que du rien du tout

plus comme un être humain. bref

ce poème est trop long

XXVIII

mais même après tout

ça je me sens toujours comme

si je revais. dans

XXIX

une semaine je vais

être chez moi donc c'est presque

la fin. j'ai trop hâte.

bad poems #8

why do i constantly live in the future: a series of haikus

I

a small apartment,

city not too small or large,

full of books and light

II

a cat or a dog

or a rabbit or a bird

some shostakovich

III

i'll buy everything

i need, paying attention

to colanders and

IV

first aid kits, linen

and dustpan and the kettle,

a drawer for socks.

V

i don't ask for much

just time to have a pot of

yoghurt with granola

VI

breakfasts and netflix

and trips to the museum

and my phd

VII

feet up on the sofa

taking notes from my reading

fresh air from windows

VIII

cooking my mom's food

calling her to ask about

boiling lotus root

IX

mismatched furniture

wall with gallery postcards

a candle burning

X

i'll need some money

to cover the rent and to

fund my big road trip

XI

that doesn't matter

another instagram life
for my best daydreams.

A poem I worked on from June (?) to September of 2016. I had originally planned on publishing it in my magazine, perhaps, but decided against it, because I didn't want 小季阿姨 to see it (and I still don't). In year 13 (2017) I created Hiroshima mon amie, a work of performance art with references to Ren Hang's poetry (which I translated and can be found on this blog) as well as the movie Hiroshima mon amour, where I paint a portrait of Elise and then burn it as a way to find closure. Originally conceived as just another exhibition piece needed for IB Art, I found that it actually helped. Afterwards, I no longer felt the need to create art about Elise; I had finally reconciled with the truth. Between 2013 and 2017 though, I did write 3 fully completed works of writing about Elise. This is one of them. The mahjong theme was revisited in Good Things Come in Thirteens, a poem about body and physicality that appeared in Sine Theta's issue #3.

See English text at the very end as blurb/footnote to the poem, which is pretty nonsensical without it.

The poem started out as a simple exercise in Chinese wordplay, whilst being bored in Chinese class. As with most of my work, it gradually developed until it revealed my true concerns at the time of writing. I then refashioned it around the true theme that I had to discover through freehand writing.

----------

上吊英雄传

Jiaqi Kang

ladies and 乡亲们

能听得见吗？

给我好好听着

我好像丢了东西

我好像丢了南北

能看得见吗？

给我好好看着

我好像丢了眼镜

我好像丢了眼睛

早就化成了灰

早就化成了霉

我真倒霉

1.东

日出

东邪

赤着脚 踩着沙滩

又粘又湿的沙子抓住赤的脚

年年出去玩沙子

蓝

天

蓝

海

赤着脚 踩着走廊里的地毯

踩着灰 踩着你我

踩着一种奇怪的骄傲

黄河向东流哇

黄皮肤 黄土地

电视上节目上

44 63 66 67

邓超嘎叽嘎叽嘎叽

we are 伐木累

不觉得好烦吗？

不觉得超级无聊吗？

看的清楚吗？

2.西

夕阳

西毒

猴年马月的某个周六

画展顾长卫乌云汉堡蜡烛夜晚街道

沉默在黑暗中的街道

接下来到lord nelson pub喝啤酒

那金色的透明的恶心的液体在

金箍棒里装着好高好高

高到天空

大闹天宫

哎

我妈要是问的话

就说咱们吃饭吃的

超级特别非常的

晚

好吗？

还有佰意楼下厕所旁边卡拉OK

日内瓦唯一的正宗的中国的卡拉OK

男女

女男

邓丽君像蜂蜜一样

又粘又粘又湿的蜂蜜粘住你我

贼猫晚上来敲门

用爪子抓门敲门

唱着一口独上西楼

谁呀

才刚九点就已经唱的这么high

冲完厕所独自一人上楼梯

不觉得好可笑吗？

你还记得吗？你还记得吗？

3.南

星空

南帝

难题难到你了吗？

那缺乏氧气的教室里有你

那充满灰尘的走廊里有你

赤着脚 踩着楼梯上西楼

一楼 二楼 三楼 四

那古老的桌子旁有你

那旅馆的白床前有你

羊年洋气喜羊羊

周五晚上的气氛里有你

吃喝拉撒看电视

中国好声音3

中国好声音4

中国好声音一起像铁丝一样勒死

那个啦啦meme手心抱着陶瓷脑袋

我的内心几乎是奔溃的

遮住眼睛难道就看不见了吗？

你说孟姜女哭长城那时候才几岁呀

眼里那么多泪

脸上那么多泪

那么多泪的时候倒立根本没用

（至少能洗个头）

看的清楚吗？

听的清楚吗？

你还记得吗？

4.北

月光

北丐

我那天忘了在哪里又

听到了月光下的凤尾竹

我那天忘了在哪里又

看见了你画的那些小人

它们一个一个的那么

渺小

苗条

这不是你所要的吗？

你为什么不回答我？

你为什么不理我？

我有做错什么吗？

是因为我那年夏天没有在whatsapp上回你吗？

那两个蓝色的弯勾是不是和毕加索一九零几年一样

那样甜蜜？

邓丽君像蜂蜜一样

又粘又粘又湿的蜂蜜粘住你我

明月光代表我的思念

地上霜代表我们俩之间的友情

我们当年是最好的朋友

现在应该说闺蜜吧

我们还是好朋友吧？

你答应我好吗？

你去哪里了？

你为什么不理我？

中神通

眼神里的疼痛

心里窝着一只死苍蝇

你还记得吗？

当然不记得 没事儿 我知道你不在

我知道你没在

我四处寻找你

我走遍江湖寻找你

终于在灰尘之间发现了你的骨髓

看来这武侠的命实在是不适合你

你的眼睛从背后看着我

看什么看？看什么看？

轻轻的你走了

正如你轻轻的来

闭上眼睛睡吧

明天还得早起

该你坐庄了 快扔骰子

打十三幺是永远都不会和的。

---

English text:

This poem’s structure is inspired by the popular series of Chinese martial arts novels by Louis Cha, The Legend of the Condor Heroes. In it, the Five Greats of the wulin are given the following nicknames: Eastern Heretic, Western Venom, Southern Emperor, Northern Beggar, and Central Deity. The wuxia theme runs parallel to fleeting impressions of past events, references to Chinese popular culture, and accusatory questions. Ultimately, the work is about my best friend, who killed herself in 2013, and the moments she would have experienced alongside me if she were still alive, as well as the numb feeling of disorientation that still surrounds her absence. The style is in part inspired by the poetry of Meilan Steimle, some of which you can read in our first issue.

i had a dream i was late to my maths exam but they made me run upstairs to put my coat in my locker. then i went inside but the year 12s were also having their mocks and i had to sit next to peter du and he was rude to me. (bad poems #7)

God i imagine them like festering pustules / bursting running ulcer like Winston Smith / coming out of the exam all I can think about is / some blitzkrieg, some kamikaze, committed on the / fecund rotund landscape of bumps and snags across my back, Deadpool desert / muscle pain patches layered over and over until the hot searing feeling becomes dull / red boiling wheezing / why do i itch when i integrate / kinematics staccato pen strokes / scratch / imaginary numbers and imaginary pains / scratch / De Moivre applies Fenistil across my shoulders / scratch / God if i die today at least let me pass / scratch / written on my tombstone she made her offer / scratch. 

Bad Poems #6

My new toothbrush has a small head
oval and precocious
soft white bristles all of equal length
the toothpaste sits on top of them like a fakir
after Rodin, floats strangely.
In my mouth it doesn't assert its presence
slides over my teeth
smooth and fast
like the new ballpoint pens I bought at Migros
green blue red black
a German name and bright blue casing
smooth and gliding across the paper
that is how my new toothbrush feels.
The toothpaste doesn't seem to make any
real contact with my teeth.
My movement is too brusque,
shoving it around, with its small head
it is too small to withstand my usual motions.
Lately the toothpaste has made me feel sicker than usual.
Four times I have retched, wretched,
neck hung over the sink
wincing, long drops of saliva suspended from my lip
like okra, sweetly foreign texture on my tongue
lady's fingers, snotty salivary strange feeling
almost as strange as when a persimmon is eaten
at the wrong time (too early or too late? I don't remember)
and it makes my mouth feel fuzzy and unbearable
my whole body contorts with discomfort
hair hanging over the sink.
Maybe it's the type of toothpaste
not the standing tube like at the orthodontist's
but the clear blue with specks and stripes
not white with pink
but almost translucent blue.
Perhaps they have different ingredients.
I hope I don't actually throw up.

Bad Poems #5

The Luminaries: a series of haikus

I [Aries]

I have just finished

reading The Luminaries

(Eleanor Catton)

II [Taurus]

I do not really

have an opinion. It was

quite good. Mysterious.

III [Gemini]

Didn't really like

the ancient style of writing

Author's presence was

IV [Cancer]

too pronounced. Narrators

should be omnipresent third

person amorphous

V [Leo]

immaterial and

unreal and unacknowledged

or a character.

VI [Virgo]

I didn't like that

it was written like someone

was recording and

VII [Libra]

transcribing. Unseen.

Then rearranging for us.

A fly on the wall.

VIII [Scorpio]

Yet nonexistent.

Anyway. It had a lot

of astrology

IX [Sagittarius]

and constellation

symbolism. I guess if

you analysed it

X [Capricorn]

You'd find some deep stuff.

Elaborately set up.

So much so that the

XI [Aquarius]

ending seemed a bit

like a disappointment. Not

a big reveal but

XII [Pisces]

a gradually

unravelling mystery.

Onto the next one.

Hmm. I just remembered there are a bunch of unresolved questions. Like how was Anna able to read and write on the deed if she... couldn't read and write? Or was she just pretending? That was never made clear. Also, I'm confused about what really happened to Emery Staines. And how could Lydia speak perfect Cantonese? Anyway, that's all really weird, and I'm mad they were just left hanging. I guess the point wasn't the mystery, but more the soul-mate-ness between Anna and Emery Staines. Ughh.

Bad Poems #4

Gravure: une série de haikus

I

Vernis à graver

On a écrit en dessous:

Satiné lamour

II

Odeur: une mixture

Térébenthine et Coca. 

Comme dans mon enfance.

III

Mes cours de peinture;

Le Coca un peu rassis

Moins frais, moins de bulles.

IV

Doucement sucré

Un après-midi dehors

Ou comme une sucette.

V

Pas Américain.

Carambar au goût Coca.

Plat, et noir profond.

VI

Pinceaux différents

Boucles d'or a demandé

Trois. Pas assez doux. 

VII

Vieille térébenthine 

Et de la peinture à l'huile

Un mélange toxique.

Bad Poems #3

January 11: a series of haikus (encore)

VI

I got an offer

(conditional) from Oxford

It feels so surreal

VII

Don't know what to say

I feel like Andy Samberg

In Brooklyn Nine Nine:

VIII

Bad Poems #2

January 11: A series of haikus

Preface:

I

I forgot my book

at home so I'm reading Frantz

Fanon's The Wretched

II

of the Earth. Today 

is the day that decisions

from Oxford come out.

III 

I'm too stressed to stu-

dy (and shouldn't anyway)

as the English mock

IV

is an unseen text.

I feel like Andy Samberg

In Brooklyn Nine Nine:

V

Bad Poems #1

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: a series of haikus

I

I thought you'd look like

the Little Prince. But you don't.

Still, the restless op-

II

-timism and the

amazement and wonder in

your books? Beautiful. 

III

Wind, Sand, and Stars, (or

Terre des hommes in French) is full

of relentless love

IV

for your profession

and the world around you and

life. A voice that is

V

refreshing to hear

in an age of cynici-

sm. Thank you for that.

I'm really enjoying Wind, Sand, and Stars so far, for the reasons I've attempted to delineate above. It's so full of joy. It's very humanist in the sense that de Saint-Exupéry truly loves humanity –– the innovation, the adventure, the nature. It's very much a book full of machismo; courage and honesty and all that. And I guess you could say it's #problematic in terms of not criticising colonialism, or even celebrating it as an act of pioneering. But somehow I'm not bothered by that. The exhilarating sense of freedom is just amazing. I love reading film reviews when the critic has absolutely LOVED the film, because you can just feel the excitement and wonder and appreciation within every word and every line. (Film reviews where the critic abhors the film are also entertaining to read because they are often very funny as the critic searches for ways to describe how awful the film was.) De Saint-Exupéry just really loves to fly, to discover, to experience. It's a childish kind of love, with not a single drop of cynicism or negativity or self-consciousness about it.

Man, I gotta say: Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. That is just one of the nicest names ever.